


DethSpa

by LadyJaneSlay1554



Category: Metalocalypse (Cartoon)
Genre: Bartenders, Beautician, Deep Conditioning Treatment, Dethklok Goes To A Spa, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Groupies, Haircuts, Looking One's Best, Manicures & Pedicures, Manicurist, Massage, Me Time, Pampering, Pot Roasts, Predicament Bondage, Relaxing, Salon, Spa Day, Spa Treatments, Surprise Waxing, Takin' It Easy, Waxing, barber, silliness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-30
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-18 11:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21610300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJaneSlay1554/pseuds/LadyJaneSlay1554
Summary: Dethklok goes to the Mordhaus DethSpa for some treatments before a red carpet release.  One chapter per band member, plus an introduction.[Circa Mid-Season 4]
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	1. Looking One's Best

**Author's Note:**

> I always kept wondering about who maintained Nathan Explosion's nails - he doesn't seem the type to do them himself.  
> This sparked the idea that there's gotta be a sort of salon the guys go to for all their advanced grooming needs. So, here it is! I had lots of fun writing this.

Nathan looked at his normally-uniform jet-black finger nails. Two showed the tell-tale signs of abuse – the polish was chipped, and one of them was jagged. He usually wouldn’t have let it bother him – of course, they looked a hell of a lot more BRUTAL this way, but he couldn’t help it – the chips and jagged edges threw off the symmetry and there was the fact that things were beginning to catch and annoy him…. More than a few times, he had gotten his nails stuck in some groupie’s hair during an evening visitation, and while he was sure it was uncomfortable for his female entertainers, Nathan was bothered that each unnecessary pull hurt his hand a bit, too.

Something had to be done. He strode to his door, meaning to hunt down Charles or a Klokateer to demand an appointment at Mordhaus’ DethSpa. As he swung open the door, he caught a glimpse of Toki and Skwisgaar in the hallway, arguing about, of all things, what root vegetable was best with pot roast.

“Turnips ams always making the pot roasts taste betters! Yous can’t deny that they tastes zesty and am balancings out the flavors!” insisted the Swede.  


“RIFF nos! Potatoes ams the workhorse and basis for starches in anys pot roast! They gives it bodys and substance!” argued the Norwegian.

“Uh, hey guys,” said Nathan. “What’re you fighting about?”

Toki attempted to explain. “We ams wantings a pot roasts dinner soons, but we wants it to tastes the best. Skwisgaar thinks turnips add a nice flavors, but potatoes ams always best in every pot roast or stews. We can’t…-”

“You mean to tell me that you dildoes don’t know you can and SHOULD put BOTH of those things in a stew, or a pot roast or whatever the RIFF it is. I mean, potatoes are the basis of any good crockpot beef meal, and turnips are RIFFing tasty. My mom used to make the best RIFFing pot roast and she threw everything in there – carrots, green beans, potatoes, turnips, parsley, tomatoes, celery, onions, you name it. Toss in a big, bloody roast, leave it for half a dozen hours. That’s a damn RIFFing good meal.” 

He paused, almost astounded he remembered that much about food. Huh. He wondered where all that came from, but now he had a craving for pot roast. These idiots had distracted him from getting a Klokateer to…. Oh, yeah. It all came back to him as he looked at his nails, now looking more gnarly than ever. 

“So, what ams you ups to?” asked Skwisgaar, noticing Nathan’s shift in attention. 

“I’m thinking of, uh… going shooting.”

“Nat’ans – you ams lookings at your nails. Do you needs to gos to the DethSpa?” asked Toki with a smile on his young face.  


“Oh, I mean, I guess, uh, they do maybe… uuuuh, yeah, I guess I should go soon. I mean, uh, we do have that red carpet thing in half a week or so…. Right?” Nathan knew he was fighting a losing battle. “Yeah, I’m going. You guys want to go, too? They’ve got a great bar there.”

Skwisgaar twirled his hair in his long fingertips, looking for split ends. Though he didn’t find too many, he could go for another deep conditioning treatment, and he did enjoy a good, wet scalp massage. “Ja, that’s probably be goods.”

Toki, of course, didn’t hesitate to jump right into the excursion. “Oh, wowee! It’d be greats to gets a nice facial - my skin ams feelings so oily.”

Just then, Pickles and Murderface ambled up. Pickles held a near-finished bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand. Murderface carried a book – “Surgery Techniques of Elizabethan England.” “Hey doods – what’re you guys talkin’ aboot?” He took a swig. 

“We’re taking a trip to the DethSpa. You wanna go? We figured we’ve got that red carpet event coming up for the new, uh… single launch and it might be good to, uh, look our best.”

Through a haze of booze, Pickles considered his dreads, which were in sore need of shoring up. “Yeah, let’s go – these RIFFing dreads’re makin’ me mad.”

Murderface scoffed. “You ladiesch can go ahead – I’ve got my new book to read and I don’t need any of that schtupid schpa crap. Go and getch yer mani-pedisch….”

Nathan’s expression darkened. “Hey, Murderface – you, uh, really should come along – we need to look good for that release. I think Abigail and Cornickelson will be there and we, uh, we need to impress on that red carpet. You don’t want to host another Brutalies Award Show again, do you?” he said, thinking back about the huge plastic surgery fiasco his bandmate had gotten into on account of his looks. All of Dethklok, save Murderface, laughed, remembering all of their insanely altered looks on that weird, ugly night.

Murderface scowled and thought. Might not be bad to just go in for a little shave, but that would be it. “Huh, maybe jusssch… Jusssch a lil’ sschhave, clean up the ol’ ssscchtaasssche.” He sighed. “Yeah, I guesssch I’ll go. You guysssch are all getting worked on, too? There’sccch that bar there. Might asssch well get blasschhted asssch I get all classschhed up.”

It was decided. Nathan speed-dialed Charles on his DethPhone and demanded he make sure the DethSpa was ready for their arrival. The band made their way over, taking their time to get there. The DethSpa was near the sauna that the band frequented.

Female Klokateers ran the DethSpa. The employees were hand-selected by Charles from the stable of groupies. It was nice to give the girls something productive to do, as long as they could remain professional around the band members. And if the boys wanted to take one or a few of them back to their quarters for the evening, well…. That shouldn’t be much of a problem, since they’d all been approved by the CFO for talent, health and attractiveness, though they were still required to wear the eponymous Klokateer uniform – black shoes, black slacks, black sleeveless, high necked shirts and black executioner’s masks. But the girls seemed to like what they did and were always amped when the boys came for some primping and pampering. Though it was all business in the DethSpa, the girls saw every visit from Dethklok as an opportunity to impress and possibly spend a sexy evening their employer-idols.

The band walked in and there was a palpable excited tenseness in the DethSpa atmosphere. The floor was grey and black marble, and the lights could be adjusted for both everyday light and also concert-type lighting, so that the band could see what they looked like on either occasion. Hair styling stations lined one wall, and a row of hair washing stations was along the back, accompanied by dryer chairs. A pair of barber chairs sat near the front of the DethSpa, and nearby, a set of five manicure and pedicure stations were set, all with black leather seats, of course. A door at the back of the spa led to the massage, waxing and facial rooms. #0404 sat primly at the shiny black and red reception desk and pleasantly asked what services the “Good Masters” would like that day. After they each told her what they wanted, she said, “Very good, my lords. Please order a drink or two for yourselves at the bar and your DethSpa Klokateers will be with you shortly.” She quickly began typing the boys’ orders into the computer, tasking Klokateers who specialized in each duty to each band member.

#1126 and #0408 stood at attention behind the bar, their masks concealing their wide smiles. Both were seasoned bartenders and oft-requested groupies with a love of metal music. Their polished tip jars reflected the colorful bottles of different sizes and liquors behind them. Shiny glasses hung from rails a few feet above their heads. Beers, meads, ales, lagers and stouts from every country were visible in the fridges below the liquor, and a wine rack along a back wall held reds from dozens of vineyards around the world. #0408 fixed a hearty double old-fashioned for Murderface from the finest bourbon available as #1126 slid two bottles of Guinness to Nathan after popping their tops with a hand-carved bottle opener. Pickles ordered a top-shelf double Long Island Iced Tea from #0408, drooling a bit as the bartender’s big breasts bounced as she shook the cocktail. She giggled slightly as she strained it into a glass and added the cola, cherry and lemon. #1126 swiftly mixed up a very dirty Grey Goose martini for Skwisgaar, facing away from him so he could enjoy seeing her butt wiggle as she shook the drink. Both girls made Toki’s Blue Hawaiian, tossing the bottles of Malibu and blue curacao high in the air, spraying the bar gun’s pineapple juice in a delicate arc and giving the Norwegian double cherries – they both knew how much Toki liked their little show. The boys thanked the bartenders, stuffing a few hundred dollar bills in each of their tip jars. “Stay right dere, laaadies!” Pickles said, a twinkle in his eye. “Deese won’t last too long!” Giggling, #1126 and #0408 waved them off, thanking them and admiring their tip jars. It was going to be good afternoon, and likely a VERY good night.


	2. Nathan's Gnarly Nails

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nathan gets a manicure!

Nathan swigged his beer and was quickly seated at the manicurist’s station and a selection of black nail-polishes was set before him. “Welcome, my lord. I’m #8511 and I apologize, but we don’t have your favorite polish – ‘Raven’s Cry.’ May I interest you in ‘Blacker Than The Blackest Black,’ ‘Mausoleum Hymn,’ ‘Holocaust Grime’ or ‘Reaper’s Cloak?’” His tall, slim manicurist sat herself opposite of him. “Your hands, please, my lord?”

The vocalist extended his arms onto the plush black towel and eyed his choices. He liked the slight metallic sheen of ‘Mausoleum Hymn,’ but ‘Blacker Than The Blackest Black’ was inspired by Dethklok, so he figured he’d essentially try his own product. “Uh, THAT one. Thanks,” he said, pointing. 

#8511 wasted no time in filing away the old polish and wrapping the vocalist’s big fingertips in foil and acetone-soaked cotton balls. “My Lord, would you like some of your beer?” She offered him a sip of his Guinness since he couldn’t really use his hands. He took a long swig and then nodded. She put down the beer and went to prepare her tools for the manicure, making sure they were sanitized.

She let the acetone do its work for about seven or so minutes and returned to the singer, who had been flipping channels on the TV above her with the control pedal at his feet. She noticed that he had settled on a nature show featuring big cats hunting in Africa. The show featured a British narrator and #8511 grinned beneath her mask as she listened to the show, too. “My lord, are you very excited about the release of the band’s new single?”

“Yeah, that’s why we, uh, came down here today. You girls always make us look good.” Here was Nathan Explosion, the most sought-after singer in the world, at her station, extending his hands to her and making small-talk.

“I’m glad you found another nail color you liked, my lord. That’s a brand-new shade you chose. It’s a perfect match for your hair.” The singer grunted with approval as #8511 removed the acetone tips from his fingers and scraped the old no-chip polish off with ease, filed the tops and ends of his nails so they were even and prepped for the next coat of polish. Nathan downed the remainder of his first Guinness and started on his second, draining a third of it. 

#8511 saw to his cuticles. They chatted about the weather and Nathan complained about Charles’ limitations on their spending. #8511 nodded and commiserated, trying to look Nathan in the eyes every once in a while to show how engaged she was, all the while keeping rapt attention on her work. She took extra care in checking for and cutting away any hangnails Nathan had - those could be so annoying! She allowed him to swig more of his beer and wash his hands. Then, she carefully applied the bottom, color and top coats of the his new no-chip, all the while curing his nails in the special UV-light hutches. #8511 made certain to apply additional coats of color to ensure this manicure lasted as long as possible. When the top coat was applied and cured, #8511 spritzed some alcohol onto the shiny black nails and cleaned them with gauze. 

“Brutal,” breathed the singer with approval.

Finishing up, #8511 lathed some unscented lotion onto the singer’s hands and massaged them, her long fingers tracing lines onto his palms and inner lower arms. She entwined her digits with his, caressing palm to palm, and then stroked his arms firmly, over and over, the lotion slicking his arms. He groaned in pleasure and #8511 was sure he could hear her heart nearly pounding out of her chest in excitement. Sadly, her time with him was nearly at an end for that session. She gave the tops of his hands one last quick rub, and patted them. “All done, my lord.”

Nathan grinned and looked at his manicurist, whose grey-green eyes sparkled through her mask. “You’ve got magic hands. Bet you can use them in other places, too. I’m sure I’ll see you soon, number… uh, #8511.”

The manicurist inclined her head, biting her lower lip, still looking at Nathan. “The pleasure is all mine, my lord.”

The singer got up, leaving her a few hundred dollar bills as a tip, and taking his beer bottles with him as he made his way back to the bar.


	3. Skwisgaar's Mane Maintenance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Skwisgaar enjoys a scalp massage, deep conditioning treatment and a haircut from a talented young female Klokateer beautician.

Everyone’s favorite Swedish guitarist sipped his gin martini, still ogling #1126’s ass as she re-arranged beer bottles in the lower fridge. He scribbled her identification number on a napkin and stuffed it into his pocket, grinning. He felt a tap on the shoulder. “My lord? I’m #0815, and if you’ll please follow me for your deep conditioning treatment?”

Skwisgaar accompanied the petite Klokateer to the washbasins. He sat down and allowed her to drape a black salon cape around him, followed by a soft black towel around his neck. He continued to sit up as #0815 ran the water to a lukewarm temperature. She scooped his hair up and placed it gently into the bowl. He didn’t have to be told to lay back. The Swede closed his brilliant blue eyes. “Ahhh, that feels goods.”

“My lord, I was told you wanted an extended scalp massage with your deep conditioning treatment. Is that correct?” #0815 asked as she dampened the blonde’s long hair in the basin. 

“Ja, just gives me the bests. Youse can even rubs my necks. That ams always feels goods, too.”

“Just as you please, my lord. Relax and let me do the rest,” she said as she selected a shampoo just for him – a purple-tinted one formulated for blondes with fine hair. She rubbed the shampoo into his hair, making sure to gently detangle his hair as to not catch her hands in any snarls. Adding a bit of coconut oil made it easy to slide her hands through the full length of his hair. 

She started her massage, standing behind him and the free-standing basin. She made slow, deliberate, counter clockwise circles on the sides of his head, starting just beneath the crown and using both hands, going slowly and gently. She smiled as the Swede’s sculpted face relaxed into a content grin. She continued doing this, pressing slightly harder each time she moved to the lower portion of his head. Next, came the gentle pinching motion in which she grabbed and pressed away down the sides of his head again and again, always slowly, always incrementally increasing in pressure. More circular motions, smaller, followed this this time, up and down the sides of Skwisgaar’s head. Next, #0815 ran her hands from the sides to the center of the guitarist’s head, pressing firmly on each round. He seemed to like this one particularly well, moaning softly with pleasure in his seat and shifting his hips and legs. 

Had #0815 not been wearing her mask, Skwisgaar would have seen a very happy young woman, with red blushing cheeks and a wide smile with well-kept teeth. She repeated the small circles and went back to lavishing attention to the motion in which she ran her hands from the sides to the center of the Swede’s head. The young woman repeated the circles and center-side swipes and then moved on to caressing the guitarist’s head down his hairline. From just above his ears, she stroked down towards his neck, gently at first, as always, and then going farther and farther down his neck with increasing pressure. More moans and shifting from the client issued forth as the beautician continued her ministrations. She repeated this the process a few more times, delighting at his responses. 

Since this was an extended scalp massage, she repeated the whole retinue of motions twice more and finished off the last round with a shampoo brush, smoothing out his hair with long strokes. The Swede lay as limp as a bowl of noodles as #0815 finally finished, rinsing his hair and applying his deep conditioning treatment. 

She helped him sit up straight, switched out his damp neck towel for a fresh dry one. She then swiftly twisted and piled his conditioning hair atop his head and made him a small turban out of a long sheet of Saran Wrap, twisting it gently around his head as she neatly tucked in the end (Skwisgaar had an aversion to plastic shower caps, having seen his mother wear them too many times). #0815 led him to a dryer chair and made sure his martini was close at hand, as well as a pile of guitar and Playboy magazines. “I’ll check in on you in 20 minutes, my lord,” she said as she turned the dryer on. 

The pleasant heat and residual relaxed mood the Swede was still feeling made him smile and nod in approval. He sipped his martini and looked around. He’d have to do this more often – this was part of what being a celebrity was all about – the pampering.

20 minutes swiftly passed as he thumbed through the magazines and finished his drink. As soon as he wondered if he should get another, there was #1126, who was taller than he recalled, with a fresh martini ready on a tray. “Thought you’d want a refill, my lord, so I took the liberty.” 

Skwisgaar took the new drink and toasted. “To alls da lovely laadiiies of da DethSpa.” #1126 and #0815, who was just arriving back, bowed their heads at the praise. As #1126 sauntered back to the bar with the empty glass and the tray, Skwisgaar caught another glimpse at her shapely ass. He was glad he’d written down that identification number. 

Another quick trip to the wash basin to rinse his hair with cool water, and soon, #0815 escorted the Swede to her work station.

#0815 seated Skwisgaar at her salon chair. She unwrapped and combed his hair. “Maybe a small trim, my lord?” she asked as she daintily played with the dryer in its holster on the counter. 

Skwisgaar admired his reflection in the mirror. “Ja, you cans take an inch, inch and a halfs off. No layers, though. Sames style as befores.”

“As you wish, my lord,” #0815 said, running her fingers repeatedly through Skwisgaar’s hair, cutting with focused precision. He would look awesome when she was done with him. Section by section she went until she was finished cutting. She blew his hair dry a bit at a time after applying a protective spray that would prevent heat damage. Admiring his hair, she held up a hand mirror so he could see what the back of his head looked like. 

He smiled, “I looks goods and I feels good, thanks to youse. Thank you, uh… #0815. You wills sees me here agains soon. Do you do full bodys massages, too?”

She nodded. “Yes, my lord. It would be a great pleasure to see you again.”

He grinned, gave her a handful of hundreds and fifties for a tip, patting her soft hand as she took them. He turned around and sauntered off to the bar, adding another number to the napkin in his pocket.


	4. Pickles' Professional Preening

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pickles gets some TLC for those dreads and finds his hairstylist has a life outside of the DethSpa.

Pickles saw a powerful-looking Klokateer coming towards him, her sculpted deep brown arms complemented by her tight-fitting top. “Trinity – is dat you?” he said, squinting. He remembered this woman – she was one of the two African twins Skwisgaar spoke so highly about. If what he heard from the Swede was true, this young lady was downright voracious in bed, as was her sister. 

His eyes lit up as she held her index finger to her masked lips and furtively looked around. “#6738 at your service, sire.” She winked. “#0404 said you were in need of some TLC for your dreads. Follow me, if you please.”  
Trinity/#6738 led Pickles to a salon chair, placing a towel about his neck and a cape across his front and shoulders. She opened a drawer at her station and drew forth a large needle and some red thread that matched Pickle’s hair almost exactly. The drummer sipped his drink, his interest piqued. “Whatcha gaht dere?”

#6738 opened another drawer and took out some loose, kinky afro hair, also almost an exact match to Pickle’s near-orangeish red. “Sire, I plan on shoring up your dreads with these.” She looked at his Long Island. “I can also have the bar deliver another drink to you.”

“Sounds good ta me. You go ahead.” He picked up a heavy metal magazine from a nearby station and cracked it open, laying it on his lap. “Ya need me ta do anythin’ while ya work? I didn’t know this wuz one of yer… uh… talents.”

“Sire, you just need to sit still. And my sister and I have been doing each others’ cornrows and dreads since we were little.” She glanced up at the bar and motioned to Pickles’ glass.

On duty at the bar, #0408 nodded and attended to making another double Long Island for Pickles.

Pickles watched as #6738 pulled and rolled out section after section of afro hair, using her palms. His drink arrived and he thanked and tipped #0408. 

#6738 picked up a large crochet hook to weave the new hair through the existing dreads at the base and then used the needle to sew the two pieces together, twisting and splitting them around each other. She repeated this process again and again, shoring up each dread and adding length to all of them on the back and sides of his head. 

Pickles read and read about other heavy metal rockers, and even discovered he’d done an interview for that particular magazine – he must have been drunk out of his mind, because seeing that he’d given them an interview completely surprised him. He glanced up from time to time at #6738 (he kept thinking of her as “Trinity” but Mordhaus rules dictated they couldn’t acknowledge Klokateers by their Christian names if they were on duty). He watched her split and weave the extensions in and then sew the two pieces together. She sure seemed to know what she was doing. He was glad she’d found work after Skwisgaar was done with her and her twin – she was clearly talented at this. He hoped her sister Quadrupelty had found something useful to do, too. 

“Hey, uh… #6783?”

“6738, sire. I’m sorry, have I been pulling too hard? I’m nearly done.”

“Nah, yer doin’ fiiine. I wuz jus’ wonderin’…. Is yer twin still aroun,’ too? Yew two cowerkers or somethin’?”

“Sire, #6739 is in training for piloting a DethSpider. She was selected for elite combat once her physical test had been completed,” replied the young woman.

Pickles nodded, eyes wide, impressed. “Wow, dat’s quite a jump, eh? What about yew? Dis can’t be all ya do.”

“No, sire. I also am being trained for elite combat, but with firearms.”

Pickles smiled. “Haha, I’m glad youse two’re on our siiide! Congraaats on yer pramotions!”

The young woman thanked her client and once again, the two fell silent as #6738’s hands worked busily to finish installing all the extensions. She was secretly thankful that Pickles’ hair was thinning and he didn’t have many attachment points left. But she did try her hardest to do a good job. Looking one’s best was important to her entire family. If these bulked-up dreads made Pickles happy and more confident, that was what she wanted. And the hefty tip he’d surely give her if he was pleased. It felt good to impress someone so important, too, even if he was three sheets to the wind.

By the time she was done, Pickles had downed three more double Long Islands, making #0408 a very happy and wealthy Klokateer bartender. #6738 stood back and wrung her hands. “Sire! What do you think?” She slowly spun his chair in a circle, giving him a hand mirror to admire her handiwork at all angles.

Pickles lit up. “Holy RIFF! Dat looks great! Trini – I mean, uhhh… #6738 – I don’t tink my hair’s looked dis good since my days in Snakes & Barrels! Tanks, tanks so much! Lemme write down yer ID so I can, uh, y’ know….” He took off the cape and towel, standing up, stretching and laying them atop the chair.

#6738 smiled beneath her mask as he wrote down her number and fished in his wallet for ten $100 bills, pressing them into her hand. “I wish I had more, but, y’know… I’ll see y’ soon. Y’ doin’ anything tomorra night?”

“Sire, my schedule is open.”

Pickles wiggled his eyebrows at the young hairdresser/fighter. “Yer gonna be doin’ somethin’ after all! See ya later. Say hi to yer sister, too.”

“Very good, sire.”


	5. Toki's Flawless Facial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Toki gets a facial, gains confidence and makes a friend. When he gets out, mischief is afoot....

Toki sipped on his Blue Hawaiian, enjoying the pineapple, citrus and coconut flavors. He looked back at the bar. “Wowees, ladies! Youse two sure knows how to make a tastys tropical drink!”

“It’s our pleasure, sire!” said #1126 & #0408. “We love satisfied customers.”

Toki’s esthetician hadn’t come for him yet, but he didn’t mind waiting. Murderface was waiting for his barber, too, sitting on a plush red chair, swirling and sipping his old-fashioned as he looked through his "Surgery Techniques of Elizabethan England" book with rapt attention. Toki took out his DethPhone and took a few pictures of what was happening around him – he wanted some new photos for his scrapbook. Over there was Nathan getting his nails done by a statuesque lady, and over by the washbasins, a petite woman was washing Skwisgaar’s hair with a lot of enthusiasm. He saw Pickles and a strong-looking African lady stride over to the hairdressing chairs. The Norwegian snapped a few photos of each scene. “Ladies, smile!” he said to the masked bartenders, who laughed. They then struck some sexy poses for him with liquor bottles in each hand. “Ah, you ladies always ams puttings on such a great shows for Tokis! Thanks you – you ams both going in my scrapbooks.” 

Just then, a curvy female Klokateer almost Toki’s height came up to him, bowing low. “My apologies, my lord – I was readying the room for your arrival. Please come with me for your facial. I am #4880, your esthetician.”

“Ok, goils – will sees you laters!” said as he waved to the bartenders.

“Come back soon, your lordship! We can introduce you to Sex on the Beach,” said #1126 playfully as #0408 threw an ice cube at her, giggling.

Toki snapped a picture of them as he left and then took a selfie with #4880, giving her bunny ears. She laughed quietly. “I am glad I get to work for you today, Master Toki. You have a beautiful spirit.” Her voice was musical – he could detect a European accent. Was she French? Spanish?

Toki and #4880 made their way through the door at the back of the salon to the private rooms. “If you please, sire, remove your shirt and put this on. Say my ID number when you are done.” She handed him a soft black spa robe and exited, pulling the door closed behind her. Toki put his drink on the shelf after taking a big swig of it and quickly shucked off his shirt, draped it on a nearby chair, and donned the robe. Lotions, ointments and candles lined the walls on shelves. There was a counter with a sink and a machine for sanitizing instruments. A magnifying mirror, light and lens on a rolling stand stood close by. A small towel warmer was nestled in a corner. Toki took some pictures before clambering onto the narrow bed-like treatment table. Calling, “Ok, #4880!” summoned his esthetician back into the room.

She dimmed the lights and turned on a soundtrack of white noise – ocean waves. Toki smiled at her. “What shoulds I do?”

#4880 put on some black examination gloves. “Nothing for you to do, good master. Only relax, close your eyes. When I get done, your skin will feel better than it ever has before.”

“Oh, wowee! That woulds be wonderful!”

“Shhhhh, sssshhhh, sire. Listen to the waves.”

As Toki let himself be transported to a faraway coast, #4880 wiped the Norwegian’s face with a cleansing cream, letting it sit on his face for two minutes to break down and absorb the accumulated dirt and oil. Then, she wiped his face clear with a clean cotton pad, tossing it into a hamper when she was finished. Next, she applied an exfoliator with microbeads and rubbed it gently into his face, being careful not to go too hard around his eyes. She rinsed his face using a cotton cloth soaked with lukewarm water.

“Sire, I’m going to apply a hot, damp towel to your face for a steam treatment. It will stay on for about five minutes. Please let me know if you feel uncomfortable and I will remove it.”

“No problems. Go aheads.”

#4880 removed a steaming hot hand towel from the warmer and applied it to Toki’s face so he could still inhale and exhale comfortably. The Norwegian remained calm, seemingly enjoying the treatment. #4880 set her timer for five minutes and sat on her stool, reading a celebrity magazine. There was an interview with Pickles in this one, all about wines. Apparently, Pickles’ dream was to own a vineyard of his own one day. As soon as she finished reading, the timer went off with a gentle, “Ding!” 

#4880 removed the not-so-hot–anymore towel from the guitarist’s face. He blinked like an owl. “Sire, it is time for extractions. Please let me know if I hurt you, and I can try another way.”

“No problems. Go aheads.”

The esthetician pulled her mirror, lens and light over and drew a few extractors from her sanitized tool kit. She worked on his nose first, removing whiteheads, blackheads and squeezing out what she could. Next, his forehead, with just a few extractions needed. His chin was cleared relatively easily, and she squeezed a few deep-set pimples on his jawline. Though he made a few disapproving noises, he never complained in words. She supposed, like most clients, he knew the brief pain was worth having a clearer face. Nothing major on his cheeks, and he was done, though his skin was still relatively oily. “Thank you for being so calm through that, sire. All done with extractions,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. Of all members of Dethklok, he seemed possibly the most receptive to a shoulder pat of reassurance.

“Thanks you – what ams next?”

“A exfoliating, oil absorbing clay mask, my lord. I will apply it and then let it sit for ten minutes. No talking while that mask is on.”

“Oks. I have a question, though,” said Toki, with hope in his voice. “You ams going to be puttings some cucumbers on my eyes, yes? Cans you takes a picture of Toki after you puts on the mask and cucumbers? I ams wantings it for my scrapbooks.”

“Of course, sire. I will use your DethPhone, yes?” she asked.

“Yes! And thanks you.” He handed it to her after drawing it out of his pocket.

#4880 applied the mask and cucumbers, removed her gloves and snapped the photo. She opened the magazine she’d been reading and reset the timer for ten minutes. She placed the phone next to Toki. She liked how calm this job was. She dove into an article about some airplane crash survivors and was captivated until another “Ding” jolted her back into reality. 

She put on new gloves, tossed the cucumbers and tentatively peeled back an edge of the mask. It was dry and lifted easily off, sticking a bit towards the middle of her client’s face, as per usual. Toki cringed a bit, shifting his facial muscles, thereby loosening the mask and causing it to lift finally free. #4880 gently sponged his face with cool water, closing the pores. She applied some toner to his chin, jawline, forehead, and especially nose to lessen the oil. Next came the special moisturizer under his eyes, rubbed in with soft, circular motions. 

Finally, #4880 grabbed her favorite moisturizer to use on men and rubbed it all over Toki’s face and neck, giving him a pleasant facial massage as she did so. She finished up by applying some flavorless balm to his lips, then gave him another pat on the shoulder as she handed him a hand mirror to show him how clean his face looked. Delighted, Toki smiled widely, feeling his face. “Dis ams the cleanest Toki’s face has ever beens! You ams a magic lady!” He impulsively threw his arms around #4880 and gave her a big hug. “Thanks you.” 

A delightfully surprised #4880 smiled beneath her mask and… what else could she do? She hugged the young, grateful Norwegian back. “You are most welcome, sire. This is an honor for me.”

Toki gave her another squeeze and then as the two stood apart, he looked at her. “Your accent… Ams you French? Spanish?”

#4880 bowed her head. “Italian, sire. I am from Venice.”  


“Oh, wowees! With all of those canals – you must be very good at swimmings and sailings boats!”

She laughed, a bit louder than she had before. “Sì, maestro! I thank you for noticing my accent. And for the hug. You have brightened my day, my lord. Please permit me to walk you back to your fellow bandmates.”

Toki nodded. “Another pictures? Just of you, for my scrapbooks.” He placed a yellow jar candle in her hands as she nodded. “So prettys. The light makes you looks like an angels! Thanks you, #4880. Toki ams not forgettings your ID number!” He smiled and reached into his wallet and thrust a large fistful of hundred dollar bills into her soft hands. “Here, it ams for you.” Charles had taught his charges the importance of graciously tipping long ago.

After dressing and collecting his drink, the two walked out to see the rest of the band standing around Murderface, apparently sound asleep in a barber chair. Nathan, Skwisgaar and Pickles were whispering and motioning rapidly to a DethSpa Klokateer, #9133, who was quickly walking over, a tray with a pot of hot wax, cotton balls, spa robe sashes and aloe vera gel at the ready. #1509, the young female Klokateer in charge of trimming beards stood off to the side, bent over in silent laughter, clutching a fat roll of bills – bribe money, no doubt. The bartenders were coming over to his friends, too. Toki patted #4880 on the shoulder in parting and joined his compatriots, feeling clean, confident, and as mischievous as his fellow bandmates.


	6. Murderface's Moustache Malarkey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murderface gets a 5-star shave, and a bonus beauty treatment, specially chosen by his band-mates.

William Murderface swirled his old-fashioned as he settled into an overstuffed leather chair in the waiting area near the bar. He sighed with contentment. What a comfy seat – he ought to have something like this in his bedroom by a nice reading lamp. Or the next time they redid the library, they could use the same type of chairs – Murderface loved to disappear for hours at a time, find a good book, and just tear into it. He especially loved a good historical nonfiction about executions, doomed monarchs, surgical techniques, occult practices and/or mythology. From the dawn of time, humans had always been so twisted, so sick, so brutal. It was amazing how cruel people could be to one another. He read for quite some time, unrushed, enjoying his new book.

The bassist was lost in his thoughts again when his barber, #1509, tapped his shoulder. “My lord. Are you ready for your shave?”

Murderface folded the inside of the paper cover of his book to the page he was reading and closed his new tome. “Ready. Where issch your sscchtation?” he said, sipping his drink.

“Please follow me, my lord.” She led the way to a very professional-looking barber’s chair, a large hot towel warmer set beside the wooden rolling chest of drawers near to the seat. A small sink with a countertop was nearby. Murderface sat in the chair and she fastened a cape about his front, laying a towel on top of the neck/headrest. He polished off his drink and signaled to #1126 to make him a new one - #0408 was busy mixing a third Long Island for Pickles. He laid a few big bills on the counter for her to take when she brought out his new drink. 

The man relaxed into his chair, and she lowered it back so he was in a pleasant reclined position. #1509 tucked a thick, black hand-towel into the collar of the cape. Next came a steamy towel laid over the face with an opening for the nose – God forbid Murderface got smothered. The steamy towel helped to open the pores and made for a cleaner shave. After just under a minute, she removed the towel, tossed it into a hamper by the base of the chair. The young Klokateer rubbed some shaving oil into the moustache and stubbly chin of her client. She made sure to gently work it into the direction of the hair growth, following the varying patterns of facial hair. Another steamy towel followed. #1509 quickly ran the sink, poured hot water into a shave bowl, swirled it around, warming it. She set it on the counter. She switched out another hot towel onto her client’s face, tossing the cooled one into the hamper. #1509 emptied all but a fraction of an inch of hot water in the bottom of the bowl and then took a shaving brush dipped in shaving cream. She dipped it into the bowl. She switched out the final hot towel on the bassist’s face, then stirred the cream into a rich foam and applied it to the musician’s chin and neck.

“Jussch’ the usscchual, ssscchweetheart. Trim it up nissch, keep the ssscchhape.” Murderface saw that his drink had arrived from #1126. Following his gaze, #1509 handed him his old-fashioned. He savored a long sip, then lay back down, handing her his unfinished drink, which she placed on the counter.

“As you please, my lord.” #1509 smoothed the towel across his chest again and applied a thin coat of lather around the bassist’s moustache, going carefully almost into his nostrils. She sharpened her single-blade razor on the leather strop attached to the cabinet. Up and down, stroke, stroke, stroke. Up and down, nice and easy. She held the razor to the light as both of them admired its gleam. It was a very Sweeney Todd moment. 

The young barber shaved his chin clean, making sure to hold the razor at a 30 degree angle and shave with the growth of the hair. She completed both sides of his neck, too, and then set to work carefully sharpening the edges of his moustache. It was hard to get the proper space between his nostrils – his moustache’s “part,” but she finally nailed it. 

Finishing her first shaving round, #1509 then lay another hot towel over the bassist’s face, noticing that a freshly-manicured Nathan had gotten another pair of beers for himself and was watching her work, sitting on the barber chair next to Murderface, texting intermittently. She blushed beneath her mask, not used to such attention. He put a finger to his lips and pointed to Murderface – Nathan didn’t want him to know he was there! #1509 nodded and switched out another towel. Murderface lay peacefully, his eyes closed, breathing deeply, lulled to apparent sleep by the relaxing shave and pleasantly warm towels.

Soon, Skwisgaar joined Nathan, likely summoned by the texting. They watched the female Klokateer barber at her work, smiling. She shaved Murderface across the growth of his facial hair, smoothing his face. Next came a quick soothing powder, tapped on gently with a dry towel. She applied some aftershave and gently massaged it into the bassist’s skin with practiced, light strokes.

While all men of Dethklok did enjoy a traditional shave, they wanted to make this spa visit extra-special for Murderface, who was beginning to snore. Pickles arrived next, after wrangling young #9133, an esthetician who specialized in waxing. They sent her away to get her kit and the lead guitarist pulled the barber aside, his finger to his lips. She nodded as he thrust a large wad of money into the barber’s hands. 

Skwisgaar spoke in a whisper, “Goes to the bars and gets for mes another dirty martinis. Doubles Grey Goose. Top shelfs Long Islands for Pickle, two Guinesses for Nathans, doubles Blue Hawaiis for Tokis. Tree old-fashions for Moiderface. Tips de ladies. I will gives youse anothers rolls of money if you does dis and comes back. Youse must be totals quiet whens youse comes backs – we ams goings to wax Moiderface! Not ones peeps, ja?”

Clutching the money and bowing to the handsome Swede, #1509 was off like a shot, explaining the drinks to the bartenders in a hushed, urgent voice. They prepared the cocktails and beers, making as little noise as possible. They even went as far as muffling the cocktail shakers with towels as they shook them. #1126 & #0408 helped #1509 carry the drinks back to the barber chairs and decided to stand nearby to watch the show.

Skwisgaar grinned and handed #1509 a roll of bills, patting her on the shoulder. These girls were so eager to please! 

“Don’t worrys, we wills leaves your shavings job alones. The wax ams for his eyebrows!” The Klokateer stifled a laugh and moved to the side, nearly losing control with giggling as she spotted the bespectacled #9133 quickly and carefully moving across the room, holding a barely-balanced tray of aloe vera lotion, a few spa robe sashes, cotton balls and, the crowning glory… a pot of warm hard wax. #9133’s glasses magnified her already wide eyes as she concentrated on getting through the DethSpa without mishap.

Toki, carrying his yet-unfinished Blue Hawaiian, stepped up to the barber chairs. He saw Pickles and Skwisgaar holding their fingers to their lips and resisted the urge to crow with pride about his facial and to ask a dozen questions about WHAT WAS GOING ON. But as he saw #9133 set up the wax pot, and position herself above Murderface’s forehead, he joined #1509 in doubling over in silent laughter, but not before snapping a few pictures. 

Skwisgaar tied some spa robe sashes together securely and, with Nathan’s help, they bound the bassist to the barber chair – he was not going anywhere during his quick, brutal makeover!

Once the two band-mates were done securing their victim, #9133 spread the hard wax thickly over both of Murderface’s eyebrows in two precise strokes. The less movements made, the better. The purple hard wax looked hilarious on his face. Toki and the rest of Dethklok and the Klokateer DethSpa workers who had come to watch (most of them by now) gathered close. Murderface slept on, murmuring as if in a dream. The Norwegian snapped a photo and kept his phone poised to capture it all.

#9133 felt the pressure. She gritted her teeth beneath her mask as she counted down for the hard wax to be ripped up, praying her glasses did not fall onto the bassist’s face during her ministrations. Praying the tied-together spa belts would hold down the sure-to-be-wrathful Murderface. Bravely, #1509 stepped forward and unhooked the hand mirror from the side of her cabinet. The boys took a drink and the girls held their breaths.

RIP!!!!

RIP!!!!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUGGGGGHHHHH!!!!! RIFF!!! RIFF!!! MOTHER-RIFFING RIFF RIFF RIFF EATING RIFF RIFF SUCKING RIFF SON OF A RIFFING RIFF!!!

Somehow, the belts held. Somehow, Toki took perfect pictures of it all. Somehow, the girls kept quiet until the rest of the band exploded in laughter. Somehow, #1509 held the mirror at the perfect angle, showing Murderface his new look.

Somehow, #9133 had managed to completely strip William Murderface of every last vestige of eyebrow. She frantically dabbed at the area where his eyebrows used to be with cotton balls laden with aloe vera gel, attempting to soothe the pain. He looked at her with fire in his eyes and she backed up as every bandmate thrust hundred dollar bills onto her tray. 

Through tears of laughter, Nathan put his hand on Murderface’s chest. “Take it easy. We put her up to it. And look at the shave you got before that!” #1509 bowed, failing to conceal her bribe money, causing another tantrum from Murderface.

#0408 bravely stepped up, another old-fashioned in hand. Murderface downed it in one gulp as she held it to his lips, spluttering and still fuming. They had all never seen someone look so enraged and surprised at the same time. The bassist looked utterly silly and totally different without eyebrows. #0408 gave him another and finally the last one. They all backed up and waited for a few minutes as the alcohol softened Murderface’s murderous stares and attempted movements. The band sipped their own drinks. The Klokateers slowly slunk back to their DethSpa stations.

“Well, you did say you wanted to get classy and trashy at the DethSpa,” said Nathan. “So, uh, there ya go.”

Just then, of all people, Charles stepped in, not noticing the band and going directly to the front desk. “One, ah, Brazilian wax and shiatsu massage, for 7.30, as scheduled.” He followed #0404’s gaze. She was still transfixed on the five, now staring at their manager.

#9133 stepped forward. “Sire. Ready for you.”

Charles acknowledged his charges. “Gentlemen. Good evening,” he said as he followed his esthetician to the back rooms.

They looked at him, mouths gaping open. Time to get some more drinks.


End file.
